Asia- Heat of the Moment (Dean's playlist series)
by gwevyan
Summary: Dean gets persecuted by hot baristas and realizes something disturbing about his relationship with Sam. How's he gonna fix this one, when Sam doesn't even think anything's wrong? Note: a little longer than the other Playlist Series fics, but they're still all stand-alones.
1. Chapter 1

The hunt for a Tennessee werewolf turned into a hunt for a Tennessee werewolf _pack_, and Dean silently agrees with Sam's bitching and moaning that they need a goddamned _break_ after this one. They're both battered and chewed on and sore, and Sam got knocked into a couple trees and Dean spent some time being trampled into the dirt (he's got the perfectly paw-shaped bruises on his back to show for it, too), so he limps to the motel office as soon as they roll back up and pays for a full week.

Sam seems surprised that he's willing to stay put in one spot for their agreed-on break, rather than just aimlessly driving, but Sam also doesn't know there's another paw print bruise on his backside.

Baby's low-slung leather seats aren't all that forgiving on backside bruises.

So they spend that night relaxing, drinking a couple beers, eating their way steadily through a couple pounds of greasy Chinese food. Sam's so tired he doesn't complain once about the food, even though it's so salty Dean's tongue feels a little burnt by the time he's halfway done with his fried rice.

When Sam's nodding off over a carton of General Tsao's and maybe too sleepy to say 'no' Dean offers to give him another black eye, so the one he got from the werewolves won't look so lopsided. He's too sleepy to say anything, apparently, but manages to level Dean a decent bitchy glare and stumbles out of his chair to flop on the bed without stains.

SPN SPN SPN

The next morning Dean wakes up with the kind of grogginess that only comes from getting roughed up too much the night before and following it up with too much food. Sam looks about as bleary as he feels, so they skip breakfast for a bit and head straight to the nearest coffee shop.

"So what're you gonna get?" Dean teases as they climb out of the car. "Skinny caramel latte, heavy on the whipped cream or are you thinkin' a vanilla strawberry mocha with cinnamon rainbow sprinkles?"

"Bite me," Sam mutters, and lumbers up to the shop. As he opens the door Dean quickly reaches out and smacks the back of his head.

"Don't sass me so early in the morning."

"Ow," Sam mutters, and rubs the back of his head with a scowl like a wet kitten. Dean snorts and swaggers up to the pretty girl behind the counter, feeling a little tiredness shake off at the sight of her: bleached hair with an inch of brown roots, face-full of makeup at eight a.m., tight white blouse unbuttoned lower than the top of her apron. Eighteen, nineteen, _maybe_ twenty. Young, advertizing, and low self esteem. Just his type.

"Hey, sweetheart," Dean says with a wide smirk, leaning one elbow on the counter. "I'll have a big black coffee." He lets his gaze trail obviously down the line of her open collar to where it disappears under the apron, then flicks back up to her eyes. Huh. She's giving him a look like he's still covered in mud and werewolf shit. _Guess she has self esteem after all._ Recouping, he waves a hand over his shoulder at Sam. "He'll have whatever you've got that's super girly and comes with lots of sprinkles."

The girl actually scowls at him, then shifts deliberately to look past him to Sam. She smiles gently and says in a kind voice like Sam is a little kid, "What can I get for you, darlin'?"

_What the hell?_

Sam mumbles something about vanilla lattes. Huh. Maybe Sammy was doing those pathetic puppy eyes at her. Yeah, that was probably it.

They get their coffees- well, Sam's is handed to him, Dean gets his slammed down on the counter and the girl turns pointedly away before he can point out she's forgotten to put on one of those heat sleeve things like she'd slipped on Sam's latte.

Huh.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam declares that latte to be one of the best he'd ever had, and remarks on the pastry case they'd bypassed in favor of a pancake house with a Dean-worthy offering of fried eggs and bacon, so they go back the next morning. Sam is so excited by the prospect of a decent latte in rural middle America that he completely ignores Dean's rather clever insults the whole ride over, and practically skips up to the café door.

The unworthy big brother in Dean wants to break down howling in laughter at the thought of gargantuan demon-killing hunter Sammy Winchester _skipping_.

The better big brother in Dean notices that Sam's tshirt, in a way yesterday's flannel buttonup hadn't, shows off the ugly green bruises around his neck where a vampire tried strangling him a week or so ago.

The unworthy side wants to sneer and grumble about how Sammy always seems to get the more badass injuries. Seriously. Strangulation bruises vs. paw prints on the ass? Sam can get sympathy sex with those. Dean can only have sex with someone willing to let him get undressed in the dark.

Today the blonde girl is joined by a black-haired colleague about the same age with sweeping eye liner and warm coffee-colored skin. They look up when Sam bounds through the door and the blonde smiles, the darker girl giving his brother a solid up-and-down leer before she smiles, too.

Then the blonde catches sight of Dean behind Sam's absurdly broad shoulders, and she scowls. She nudges the other girl and mutters something into her ear. The other girl frowns, too.

Sam's all bubbly and happy as he orders some stupid girly drink and a blueberry scone. No, a cinnamon roll. No, the blueberry- he dithers and wavers back and forth about a million times before the dark girl laughs and winks and tells Sam a big boy like him needs to keep up his strength, so why doesn't he get both? The cinnamon roll's on her.

Sam ducks his head and laughs all embarrassed like an idiot before he shuffles down the counter to wait for the blonde to make his drink and throw chocolate chips on it. Dean, feeling a little unsettled, forgoes the flirty smirk and just smiles genially at the brunette. She has her arms crossed and an unimpressed look on her face.

"Black coffee, please," Dean says politely.

The corners of her mouth turn down and she grabs a cup with what seems like unnecessary violence. "I hope you at least let him ice those bruises on his throat," she hisses.

Dean blinks. "Huh?"

The girl glowers and her eyes flicker to Sam and back. Dean glances over. Sam's chatting cheerfully with the blonde as she froths something in the espresso machine, both of them smiling widely. The bruises on Sam's neck stand out starkly in the fluorescent lighting of the café.

"Oh, those? Nah, Sammy's fine. He always pisses off the wrong guy but he's tough," Dean lies quickly, pasting on a big grin.

When the girl slams his coffee on the counter, she's forgotten to put a lid on it and scalding liquid splashes all over his hand.

SPN SPN SPN

Dean's feeling a little annoyed that afternoon and Sam's a little caffeine high, so when Dean pulls out the motel-provided pizza delivery menu and says he's ordering them an extra-large bacon-sausage-pepperoni, and Sam orders him to hand the menu over because _he_'_s_ calling in to order them an extra large vegetarian feast so they can actually get some vegetables this week, they don't decide to settle it like adults.

They settle it like men.

About half an hour of grappling on the bed later, the menu's shredded into bits, Sam's got fresh bruises ringing his wrists along with a darkening black eye, and Dean's bent over gasping in pain from the last few minutes Sam spent with a knee digging into his kidney- followed up with that knee in his groin, which finally ended the fight.

"Sorry," Sam pants, sprawled out on his back with his chest heaving. He sympathetically pats Dean's shin, which is the only bit of him he can reach without moving. "You okay?"

Dean glowers. "Not cool, man," he grumbles, shifting his hips a little to try and relieve the sharp ache in his abdomen. "That was a seriously cheap shot."

"I didn't mean to," Sam offers, and Dean would bet every gun he owns that Sam's eyes are wide and pleading and pathetic. "I was trying to get my knee centered in your back so I could pin you right but then your knees slipped and you…spread your legs."

"And _your_ knee slipped right down into my balls. Yeah, I got the picture, Sam. I was there."

They lie there a minute more, then Sam gets up to find the bits of the menu and put them together to get the phone number. He calls in and contritely orders a meat-lovers deluxe.

SPN SPN SPN

They go back to the coffee shop the next morning sort of on autopilot. The two girls are there again, but this time, they don't even smile at Sam. They look up, take in the view, then spring into action.

The brunette hurries around the counter and grabs Sam's arm, saying something in a hurried voice about the stock rooms and high shelves and could he just-

The blond hurries and the counter, grabs Dean's arm, and drags him outside.

She wrenches her hand away as soon as they're on the sidewalk like she can't stand to touch him any longer than she has to.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she spits.

Dean stares at her, nonplussed. "What?" he says blankly.

The girl looks utterly furious. "How could you- you're a monster!"

"Listen, kid," Dean snaps, because this really isn't funny anymore. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about-"

"Of course you don't," she snorts, folding her arms tight over her chest. "And you'll probably say the same thing to the police, and maybe he will, too, if you've got him brainwashed, but _I-_"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean says quickly, holding up his hands. What the fuck is going on? "Look, I really don't know what you're talking about, so why don't you just explain it to me, huh?"

The blonde sneers at him like he's the meanest life form on earth. "You're hurting him," she says, her voice low and ugly. "And you don't even bother trying to hide it. I don't know how you're controlling him, but we're taking him away so he'll be safe and can get some help. And if you make one move to stop us, we're calling the police." She jabs one pointy-nailed finger in Dean's chest and he stumbles back, feeling stunned. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you? Those fingermarks around his wrist- what did he do, huh? Talk back to you a little? Maybe he hinted he's not happy with the guy who _beats_ and _humiliates_ him?"

"What the- no!" Dean cries. He's- he's shocked. He's horrified. These girls think he's _beating_ Sam? It'd be laughable if she weren't so obviously serious. How could anyone think he'd-

Dean's mind skips and shudders to a halt.

"Look," he says urgently. "You've got it all wrong. Sam and I, we're brothers, see? He's my kid brother, we're on a road trip, you know, sometimes we just roughhouse and stuff. I got bruises all over my back just like he's got on his face. Wanna see?" Dean pulls at the hem of his tshirt.

The girl frowns. "Yeah right," she says, but her voice is uncertain. Dean seizes on it.

"Yeah. Come on. Sam!" He yells for his brother as he pushes back into the coffee shop. Sammy's standing there like nothing's wrong, stuffing his face with a gooey cheesecake brownie.

"Hm?" Sam asks, washing down his mouthful with something beige and foamy.

"Sam, please tell these girls I'm not your abusive lover."

Sam spits out his drink. "_What_?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "They saw your bruises and figured I was wailin' on you 'cuz I'm an abusive asshole."

Sam's mouth twitches like he thinks he should be laughing. "Well, you are kind of an asshole."

"Sam," Dean sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose because the brunette is reaching for the phone on the counter with a threatening look in her eyes.

Sam rolls his eyes. "He's not my…partner, and he's not hurting me," he tells the girls with a pacifying smile. "I mean, yeah, he _hurt _me- same as I hurt him last night when we were fighting over the pizza menu. You wanna see his back where I got him in the kidneys? I got him in the balls, too." The bitch grins like he's all proud of himself.

"Thanks for that, Sammy," Dean grumbles, but Sam's pretty much got him _by_ the balls right now so he doesn't say it too loud.

SPN SPN SPN

Dean doesn't go back to the coffee shop, even though the mortified-but-unapologetic girls offer him free drinks for the rest of their stay in town. They offer Sam the same, and he takes them up on it with the kind of enthusiasm he usually saves for discussing moldy old books with Bobby.

Sam drinks lots of lattes.

Dean drinks lots of whiskey.

Because the thing is, no matter how drunk he gets, he can't get the idea out of his head. And then when they get in the car to drive to a nearby fruit stand the coffee shop girls recommended and his health-freak brother really wants to visit, Sam reaches out to change the radio station, and Dean automatically smacks his hand away from the dash. They trade the usual smartass insults, then grin to themselves, just like always; except- except this time, Dean notices Sam shaking his fingers out like they smart, even though he's laughing, and Dean notices the angry red mark across Sammy's hand where he'd hit it, and Dean notices a sick twisting feeling in his gut that lasts all the way to the fruit stand, where he buys his startled brother as much fruit and berries and weird raw vegetables as they can fit in the back seat.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean doesn't really settle until that stupid town with its stupid coffee girls is getting tiny in the side mirrors, car kicking up dust and pumping out a bass solo. Sam gives a few funny looks but he's used to Dean getting antsy after spending too long in one place (except Bobby's, but his place is almost like a home base, so. Different) and he doesn't say anything, just shrugs and packs his things away and asks where they're heading next.

Dean mutters something about 'north' and 'west' and maybe something about a ghost. Well, whatever. There's probably a ghost somewhere between them and Wisconsin. Mm. Wisconsin. Dairy. Whipped cream. Whipped cream on _pie_. Yeah, they're going to Wisconsin.

They find that ghost sooner than he expected, too.

They're driving through one of those old-style wooden covered bridges one evening, right around sundown. Dean puts his window down and orders Sam to do the same so he can hear the car's rumbling purr echo off the wooden tunnel walls; Sam rolls his eyes just to be obstinate, but he does. His baby purrs and growls and the sound bounces around them. Dean sticks his head out the window to whoop and hear it better.

Then he sits back down.

"Sam," he says, very calmly. "Either my car is making 'clop clop' noises- and I know she's not- or we got invisible horses on our tail."

Sam shoots him a surprised look, like he thinks Dean might be joking, but when Dean pulls off the road at the end of the bridge Sammy puts his game face on and gears up. Dean turns the car off and they climb out in sync, well-practiced movements allowing them to get armed and get up and at 'em at right about the same time. Sam rounds the front of the car and they face the empty bridge together- and the oncoming sound of hooves trotting on wooden boards.

The hooves pull up sharply as the sound comes to the end of the bridge, and invisible horses snort and shift in place.

"What do you think, Sam?" Dean asks softly, salt round at the ready. The horses aren't doing anything, just standing there. He thinks he can maybe hear the rustle of reins, too, and the creak of something behind them, like a carriage or trap.

"I dunno," Sam murmurs. "I've heard of echoes- people that die and then keep doing their same routines, like walking to work or cleaning the rooms if they were a maid, or something- they're not really ghosts, just echoes. Sometimes they're not visible. Normal vengeful spirits aren't usually able to come with things like horse-drawn carriages."

Dean rolls his eyes and knocks a shoulder into his brother's chest. "Thanks, professor," he snaps sarcastically. "Do we start shooting or not?"

Sam frowns, ignoring the shove. "I don't think so," he says uncertainly. "Echoes aren't really ghosts, you know? They won't interact or anything because they're not really there. Eventually they just fade away by themselves. But I've never heard of an echo having their horses and carriage with them."

"Huh," Dean says. He raises his shotgun and fires.

Sam swears loudly, caught off-guard by the unexpected blast. For a moment Dean thinks the salt round is going to go straight through the horses, probably put a pattern of pockmarks in the far wall of the bridge that'll piss off whatever historical society takes care of the thing.

The horses whinny loudly and hooves crash against the wood floor. There's a crunching sound of packed salt hitting something hard and wooden, then the bridge is silent.

There's no sign that the salt round hit the wall.

Dean stares. Next to him, Sam is frowning.

"Huh," he says finally. "That's different."

There's not really anything they can do with an empty bridge so they make their way to the nearest town to set up camp. It's getting pretty late in the evening, and Dean can hear his stomach growling.

"Hey, you hungry?" he asks, whacking Sam on the shoulder to get his attention.

Sam's mouth turns down in an exaggerated pout and he rubs his shoulder. "You could've just asked," he complains.

He's obviously teasing, but Dean tenses up anyway. "Yeah, well," he mutters. "You were starin' out the window like you were daydreaming. What do you want? I saw a sign for something called 'Lou's County-Famous Diner' a few miles back."

Sam kicks the floor and leans back, arching his spine. "Do we have to?" he groans. "It's been all pizza and burgers and greasy diner food for weeks, man. There's got to be some kind of decent café or grocery store in town, can't we stop there?"

"Hey, no whining from the passenger seat," Dean barks, and he reaches out and cuffs Sam on the back of the head.

He freezes, hand still held out. Why the hell had he done that? It was automatic, like a habit- did he really do that every time Sam complained? Did he really _hit_ his brother every time he disagreed? How had that never seemed _so fucking wrong_ before? It was just like when they were kids- if Sam didn't do something he should or went somewhere he shouldn't, Dean would just push him into the right spot. If he didn't wash his hands, Dean would grab his little wrists and haul him over to the sink. How had he ever thought that was okay?

"Dude," Sam grumbles, shoving his hand away. "Touchy, much?" Sam laughs like there's nothing at all wrong, but Dean can see him rubbing the back of his head out of the corner of his eye.

Dean's hands clench on the steering wheel. Was Sam so used to this- the hitting and slapping and shoving and getting put down and ridiculed- was he so used to it that he didn't even notice? Isn't that one of the signs of abuse, when the person starts to believe that being hurt is okay?

Dean doesn't answer, and he ignores Sam's curious looks, but he drives straight past Lou's Diner and pulls to a stop outside the Dandelion Café instead.

SPN SPN SPN

Sam's always in a good mood after he gets to load up on leaves and vitamins, so by the time they get back to the motel room after Dean grudgingly downs a grilled chicken sandwich and Sam consumes half his weight in salad greens and raw vegetables, Dean's brother is pretty much beatific. Dean's still hungry, and it's making him cranky.

"That was awesome," Sam sighs as he unlocks the door and practically floats inside. Dean grunts and pushes in after him. The room doesn't help his mood- the walls, curtains, and blankets are all a blinding white that's giving him a headache, and the carpet is some psychedelic optical illusion pattern that's making his stomach turn.

"If it takes us a while to figure out the ghost horses thing I won't mind," Sam continues, dropping his bag onto the far bed and stretching up to plant his palms flat on the white popcorn ceiling. "They had some really good looking soups and pastas on the menu, too. You should've tried one of the salads, Dean. Little bit of vitamin K would probably do you good."

"Oh, shut up," Dean grunts without thinking, and he reaches out to shove Sam in the side. Sam yelps, overbalances, and crashes onto his bed in a tangle of limbs.

"_Shit,_" Sam swears loudly, and his voice sounds strange. Dean can't move. He's just standing there, staring. What the _fuck_ was wrong with him? Sam hadn't even done anything, and he'd just reached out and-

"That was mean," Sam mutters. He's sitting up, holding one hand to his mouth. "_Ow_. I bit my lip. What the hell, Dean?"

His limbs seem to unfreeze and Dean hurries forward, dropping to his knees in front of his brother. "Hey, I'm sorry, Sammy," he says quickly. "I didn't mean to push you so hard, man, I'm sorry. Let me see, okay?" He gently pulls Sam's hand away from his mouth. The right side of his lower lip is swollen and red, and there's a thin trickle of blood running down from the dark purplish puncture where Sam's teeth went in. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he sighs again. "Hang on a sec, I'll get you some ice, okay?

Dean quickly fills the ice bucket from the machine down at the end of the walkway, but when he gets back Sam is already up on his feet in front of the mirror.

"Don't touch it," Dean chastises. He ignores Sam rolling his eyes in the mirror and wraps a handful of ice cubes in a washcloth, gently pressing the bundle to Sam's lip. "There," he says, satisfied. "Hold that there. You okay?"

Sam rolls his eyes again. "I'm _fine,_ Dean," he says placatingly, leaning back against the bathroom counter. "Seriously, it's already stopped bleeding."

"Yeah, well, keep the ice there anyway," Dean orders, pointing at him seriously. "And you're having soup tomorrow, okay? We don't need the scab getting scraped off by a piece of raw turnip and you spitting blood all over the café."

"Yes, Dean," Sam says with a long suffering sigh. He flops back on his bed, ice pressed to his mouth, and turns the tv on to the local news station.

Dean sits down at the white-washed table with a couple of road maps, and charts the fastest way to South Dakota.


End file.
